Saturday 5 February 2011

The Flatshare

Saturdays are for extra slumber
and maybe some chores in the 'noon,
Those extra few hours are sacred to some
After the long, winding working week

is done. Incessent high volumed chatter
quickly comes tiresome, the laughter from a can
tedious and distracting, it penetrates
the mind and disturbs the thoughts in hand.

Night time for the owls of the world
is their own, precious to them, sacred.
The squeaking and the croaking and the groaning
steals away the quiet magic, whispers go unheard.

The mind can become cluttered and full,
like dishes and plates in a dirty sink,
things become lazy and more nasty things
take hold, a simple germ leads to more.

Something so simple as a stick of cancer
with its leaves and paper burning cooly
has such tranquil feeling. The smokey drifts
bring too retches of distaste, throats burning.

Little lined boxes make more boxes lined little,
the nature of the beast one fears. To take over
and consume, awareness just a word that exists
somewhere only known to the few.

Switch. The Light. Off.

The Point

And so to the life wonder spent
Where time too much has now gone
Days and weeks that are now months and years
lost to Mind's endless conception, but no

Pen has touched paper for some time,
The words that rushed round are silent
And the pictures of the mind disappear,
Instead filled with things and stuff

like appointments and schedules and
important things to do,
silly things and pointless activity
passing time passes, unproductive.

Only for the split second that spares
from the whirlwind of everything/nothing
comes regret and wistfulness
before another reminder of something

more important/not important at all,
Mind leads meaningless questions, no,
meaning to the tracks that are tread
and to the point if there is one to be had at all.